


Aftermath

by theLiterator



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Amnesia, M/M, Politics, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-03-18
Updated: 2011-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:04:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLiterator/pseuds/theLiterator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years down the road, things have settled down for Thedas, but the Qunari seem to want otherwise. At a diplomatic gathering, Viscount Hawke encounters someone who was taken from him long ago, even as he is attempting to facilitate treaties on Kirkwall's-- and the Free Marches'-- behalf. War seems inevitable, but when has Hawke shied away from war?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Traxits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Traxits/gifts).



The show of slavery disgusted Hawke, and he edged away from Sebastian and the Tevinter 'diplomats' surrounding him. As worrisome as the increased number of Qunari forays and raids from Seheron in the last year were, he would never be comfortable around the Magisters.

Each Magister had several bodyguards, all of them wearing the trappings of their status as slaves, and the room all but reeked of the magic the Magisters had collected around themselves. It seemed impossible that the Qunari presented a threat to them, but there it was.

There were several Qunari present as well, but Hawke knew Qunari; perhaps better than anyone present, knew that not even an Arishok could negotiate on behalf of the Qunari-- at least not the way they were hoping.

He noticed three Saarebas with their Ashvaarad and took determined steps away from them. One of the Ashvaarad looked up at him, tilting his head slightly with great significance.

He should know better than to attempt subtlety around the Qunari.

He nearly tripped over a bodyguard, so caught up in avoiding the powerful Qunari mage-slaves was he, and he instinctively reached to steady the slave, a murmur of apology on his lips.

The slave was dressed in parody of the Saarebas, a thick iron collar covering his upper body, brass chains draped across the rest of his bare torso to bind his hands at his back. A brass mask with slits over the eyes completed the-- the mockery, and Hawke thought wildly that surely such a getup would render a bodyguard useless.

"Sorry," he said again, directing the apology more or less in the direction of the Magister who owned the slave this time, and he brushed behind the slave, searching the room for Sebastian. Listening to him charm the Magisters and haggle over treaty articles was better than... well, than actually looking around the room, for certain.

He brought a gauntleted hand to his brow to rub away the headache forming there, and he noticed blood across the back of it. Maker, if he'd injured one of the slaves-- his head snapped back toward the slave. He noticed thick, awful welts crisscrossing the slave’s back under the heavy iron collar, and while his mind was processing that horror, he realized that the crisp, silvery lines the wounds marred were, in fact, familiar to him.

Surely there were very few Magisters quite insane enough to do that to another living being. Surely-- but it couldn't be Fenris. Fenris would have acknowledged him somehow.

Sebastian smiled when he approached, but it was his prince's smile, the one that hid how much resentment he held in his heart for this position, hid how long he would spend kneeling in the Chantry this evening, looking for guidance and forgiveness for his uncharitable thoughts.

“Viscount,” he greeted, reaching to clasp Hawke's arm as an equal.

“Your Highness,” Hawke replied, raising an eyebrow. 'What's going on?' he meant. A decade's relationship meant Sebastian easily interpreted the gesture. Sebastian closed his eyes briefly and shook his head slightly.

“I don't believe you've met Aurelius, Hawke. He's in charge of the Tevinter delegation.”

“A fine challenge, I'm sure,” Hawke said, though he bowed politely.

“As fine a challenge as heading the Free Marches delegation,” Aurelius returned. “Would that we had a single leader, as Ferelden or Orlais.”

Sebastian grimaced. “It is hard to give the people equal concern in such a circumstance, I imagine. Or is that not the purpose of your Senate?”

“Purpose and implementation are very different things, Prince Sebastian,” Aurelius said, smiling coldly at him. “If you'll excuse me; my fellow delegates and I must retire to our chambers.”

“Of course,” Hawke said, bowing again; though not nearly as deeply.

Aurelius's smile shifted into something more like bared teeth, then he turned on his heel and retreated, summoning the rest of the mages and leaving the room.

It was quieter without them, and far less disquieting.

“Well,” said the Orlesian delegate softly, her accent lengthening the vowel and swallowing the end of the syllable so the utterance was almost a sigh. “I can see that these meetings will prove to be exactly as productive as I'd feared.”

The Fereldan delegate snorted with laughter at that, then cut himself off, looking horrified to have dared find an Orlesian's joke to be humorous, which sent Hawke into quiet chuckles, until the whole room was laughing nervously, the tension breaking.

The whole room, that is, save the Qunari.

“Hawke,” Sebastian said quietly once conversation had resumed, expression concerned. “Hawke, there isn't a good way to tell you this. Danarius is in the Tevinter delegation.”

Hawke felt his insides twist up and sink with hatred and disgust and, more than anything, self-loathing.

“It was him, then,” he replied. “I saw-- or I thought I saw Fenris.”

“You think? Didn't he say anything?”

“No. He didn't even look at me, but the markings were the same. I just thought--”

He wasn't sure what he'd thought. Perhaps he'd hoped that in the three years that had passed, Fenris had won himself free again, had found a Dalish clan in need of a strong sword and married a pretty elf girl and had had children and was content somewhere, somehow.

Perhaps he'd simply been deluding himself into thinking that Fenris would even want to acknowledge him, after what had happened those years before.

Hawke shuddered involuntarily at the memory of the chill in his blood when the spell had set over him, the way he couldn't speak or move to stop him. The way Fenris had simply stared at him before following Danarius meekly from the room.

“I can't leave him in the hands of that bastard,” Hawke said angrily, and the conversations around him lulled as people tried to listen in. “I won't; if I have to kill every Magister in this city--”

“Hawke, you know I feel the same way, but now is hardly--”

“You talk too much and say too little,” the Arishok said, interrupting every conversation in the room. As one, they all turned to look at him. “I waste my time here in this chaos.”

Hawke shook his head, even though he knew what would happen next was inevitable.

“I have fulfilled my task,” he said, then, as one, the Qunari delegation assembled themselves and left.

“That means war,” Hawke said, staring at the door that had closed behind him.

“I know,” Sebastian said.

“But what do we do?” the Orlesian delegate, who had been one of the people eagerly eavesdropping on Sebastian and him, asked worriedly.

“We strike first,” Hawke said decisively. The Fereldan delegate nodded eagerly.

“We treat Seheron as a scout unit and destroy it. Once Seheron is no longer theirs, they have an impossibly long supply line and invasion becomes impractical. If they still try, surely those of us with piracy problems have enough in our coffers to offer bounties for every Qunari ship destroyed or captured.”

“Surely,” Hawke said dryly. “But Seheron is large, and the Magisters have attempted to invade it several times with little success.”

“All we've needed,” Aurelius said coolly from behind Hawke, who whirled to face him, hands reaching for daggers that weren't present. “Was the support of the rest of Thedas.”

“The Free Marches has had its qualms about supporting slavers,” Hawke heard himself saying. Sebastian was signaling him to be silent with every fiber of his being, but Hawke was too-- Fenris had been _beaten_. And recently.

“I'm sure we can alleviate your doubts, Viscount,” Aurelius said. “Is there any particular point you wish to belabor, or are you an all-occasion crusader?”

Danarius snorted, drawing all attention to himself. “I'm sure Kirkwall's Champion has had many a crusade in his time.”

“The lyrium-marked bodyguard,” Hawke said.

Danarius stiffened. “I hardly know what you mean by that.”

“Kirkwall will entertain no treaty until you give me your bodyguard, Magister Danarius.”

“I hardly think--”

“Kirkwall happens to be the only city in Thedas that can offer a fully trained guard with veterans who have actually driven off a Qunari invasion.”

“Hawke himself,” Sebastian chimed in, “Was instrumental in that defense. He and his guard are not without value.”

“You must understand,” Aurelius said, temporizing. “I cannot insist my fellow delegate give up such a valuable piece of property without some sort of reciprocal guarantee. Simply promising to consider a treaty is no promise at all.”

“I'll promise my blade,” Hawke said. “I'll promise my blade no matter what Kirkwall chooses to contribute.”

“One man, Viscount?”

“Two,” Sebastian said. “You forget his bodyguard.”

Soft murmurs echoed throughout the room. Everyone knew who Hawke's bodyguard was-- _what_ he was.

“The mage who brought Thedas to its knees?” Aurelius asked, and Hawke should have known that the Magisters would not use the polite euphemisms that the diplomats and nobility of the Free Marches used.

The only reason Anders had not been killed was the fact that his name struck terror into the hearts of every man living.

“He prefers Anders, but that works too,” Hawke said.

“How do I know your word is good?”

“The same way I know yours isn't, Magister. Reputation.”

Aurelius inclined his head, seeming impressed. “Danarius?” he asked, and Hawke could tell it was more order than request.

“No!” Danarius protested.

“Then Tevinter will not have our aid in this,” Sebastian said.

“It's just one slave, who barely has its wits anymore, as you keep complaining.”

“But I've invested--”

“More than you ever ought to have, Danarius, and you know it. Surrender the slave, or I'll surrender him on your behalf.”

Danarius was rigid with rage, but he turned to Fenris, who stood behind him without expressing slightest interest in the proceedings.

“Fenris, pet,” he said, and Hawke did not want this to be public, though he knew that with the show he'd just made, it couldn't _not_ be public.

He heard the Fereldan mutter, “Poor bastard,” under his breath, and Sebastian shifted slightly so their shoulders were brushing.

“You've been sold,” Danarius continued. “Hawke is your master now.” He shoved Fenris toward Hawke, and Hawke reached to steady him, unthinking. “You'll obey him now,” Danarius said, then he cast an elaborate sigil that caused the three of them to glow magenta for several seconds before fading.

“There,” Danarius spat. “May you have much pleasure of him.” He stormed out of the room.

“I believe we should all adjourn for the day,” Aurelius said smoothly into the disbelieving silence.

There was a chorus of agreements from the delegates, and the Tevinter Magisters left the room again.

The Fereldan delegate moved forward, putting himself between Hawke and the rest of the delegates, saying, “I've elves in my entourage; I can see if they can't put together some clothing for him that will mostly fit, if you like, Viscount?”

Hawke pressed his fingers into his temples, but nodded. “Thank you, Bann,” he replied.

“And if I might say; that was an impressive show you put on.”

“It wasn't a show,” Hawke replied. “Do you really think my bodyguard would remain so loyal were I to drop his name at every opportunity?”

The Fereldan dropped his gaze. “No, you're right. Sorry.”

“It's fine,” Hawke said. “If you could have your men deliver their things to the Free Marches suite, I'd be much obliged.”

“Of course,” the Bann said, then turned away, snapping out orders with military precision. The Fereldans left the room.

The Orlesian delegate came up to him next, as the Antivans were assembling themselves to leave. “Will he be all right, do you think?” she asked sweetly, her brown eyes warm with concern. “I can have a healer sent-- but you won't need one, will you? My apologies, Viscount. If you need anything,” she said, rushing her words, and her sultry gaze was turned full force on Hawke then. “ _Anything_ at all, please do ask, at any time of day or night.”

“Thank you,” Hawke bit out, barely suppressing the urge to fling her away from him. She smiled limpidly at him, and he inclined his head.

“Come,” he ordered, and Sebastian and his bodyguards, as well as Fenris, silent, chained Fenris, followed him as he strode out of the room.

Sebastian made his excuses all too quickly and left them at the door, so Hawke was alone with Fenris, who was staring at him expectantly.

“We need to get those chains off,” Hawke said quietly. “I don't have a key though. Can you-- can you get them off yourself?”

In lieu of answer, Fenris pulled his hands free of the cuffs that bound them behind his back and lifted the heavy collar over his head without difficulty. Once he'd set the awful device on the low bench at the end of the bed, he returned his hands behind his back and continued looking at Hawke.

“Come here,” Hawke said. “I want to see your back.”

Fenris obediently took the two steps so he was directly before Hawke before turning and allowing his hands to relax at his sides. Hawk whistled lowly at the sight. Several of the welts were inflamed with infection, and the lyrium markings just around those were brighter than the rest.

“That needs cleaning. Why wasn't that cleaned?”

“It was to last seven days,” Fenris replied, monotone. As an afterthought, he added, “Master.”

Hawke sucked in a breath, and it felt like his heart was going to stop beating for a moment.

“When would that be, when would he have healed you?”

“In two more days,” Fenris replied, again adding the honorific after a moment's hesitation.

“Don't call me that,” Hawke said, and, “Lay down on the bed, on your front. I'm going to clean these. That should do until Anders returns.”

“Danarius said--”

“Danarius isn't here,” Hawke said. “He's not allowed to have an opinion. Not about you-- not ever again.”

Hawke found himself grateful for the luxuries deemed commonplace by the social class he'd forced his way into, for the two ewers of water in the room; one by the window to keep cool, the other warming on the mantle.

He took the warm one and a basin from a table, pouring the water in. The soap provided with the basin was soft-- Orlesian made, and he rifled through his pack for his own soap, coarser but not perfumed.

“This might hurt,” Hawke said, wincing even as he said it. What a useless thing to warn for, he thought. With that in his head, he lathered the bar of soap and used a rag to start cleaning the wounds on Fenris's back.

When he was done, he decided against tying bandages over the wounds; he wasn't sure they would help, and he wasn't sure he wanted to bind Fenris again, at least not without dire need.

As he was moving down the bed to empty the basin again, he caught sight of Fenris's feet and almost choked.

They were filthy, which Hawke remembered well from before, but they too were striped with welts, deep and purple across the soles.

“Maker's breath,” he murmured, horrified, and he dipped the rag back in the basin and started in on them too. Fenris made no sound, though it had to hurt. Hawke hurt just to touch them, there was no way they didn't.

When he was done, he did bandage those, because he strongly suspected that Fenris might still refuse to wear proper boots with socks, even this docile version, even to protect the wounds as they healed.

“It didn't,” Fenris said as Hawke disposed of the filthy water in the basin.

“What?” Hawke asked.

“It didn't hurt much at all.” Hawke wouldn't know what to do with such a statement if it weren't for the fear and guilt overlaying Fenris's words.

“That's good,” Hawke said carefully. “I didn't want it to.”

“Oh,” Fenris said quietly. Then, even more quietly, “May I get up now, Master?”

“If you like,” Hawke replied, because while he'd prefer if Fenris lay still and supine on the bed for the rest of eternity, denying Fenris anything at this point was beyond his capability. “And please don't call me that,” he added, just as Fenris was moving gracefully off the bed.

Fenris, froze, and he cast his eyes downward subserviently. “My apologies,” he whispered. “I forgot.”

Hawke wanted to shake him, to scream, “You _know_ me! I have never hurt you by choice, not once!” but he could imagine the reaction, and the fact that it involved a blank-faced Fenris simply allowing himself to be shaken, simply tolerating the yelling, he suppressed the urge quickly, digging his fingers harder still into his temples.

Instead, he reached to tilt Fenris's chin back up to meet his gaze. “Do you know me?”

Fenris shook his head, then nodded, and his eyes were wide, vulnerable and confused.

“Not from today, from the embassy, but from-- do you remember me?”

“Am I supposed to?” Fenris asked when it became clear that Hawke would not release him without an answer. “I don't, but should I?”

“No,” Hawke whispered, defeated. “No, it's okay. I'd simply hoped... it's okay though.”

The knock at the door was a welcome interruption, and Hawke moved abruptly to open it. An elf stood on the other side, holding a bundle of clothing.

“Bann Loren sent me with these for you, Viscount Hawke,” he said, offering the clothes. They were in the colors of Ferelden, but all insignia had been tidily removed, and some had even been replaced with Kirkwall insignia. Hawke considered that he had somehow won himself an ally in Ferelden, which would not be unwelcome news to Sebastian.

“Thank you, Ser,” Hawke said. The elf flushed slightly at the honorific before bowing swiftly and turning away, and Hawke closed the door again.

Fenris had been hovering behind him, poised on the balls of his feet-- or perhaps it hurt too much to bear standing properly-- and his eyes were fierce.

“These are for you,” Hawke said, offering the clothes. “They're clean, and they should fit, more or less.”

Fenris nodded and took them, quickly shedding the trousers he had been wearing in favor of the new clothing, and Hawke made a note to see if he couldn't find more insignia to make up the rest. He would outfit Fenris as a proper bodyguard, find him armor to wear over the clothes, make him less a slave, somehow.

Hawke swallowed back a burst of hysterical laughter at that. Before, Fenris had barely managed to avoid being a slave, and he'd won his freedom then with his own blood and toil.

This time, his freedom had been given to him, and he didn't even know he was free.

All of it simply made Hawke's head hurt more, until his blood was pounding through his ears and his gut was roiling and sour from the pain.

He groaned and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands.

Moments passed without distinction, Hawke too caught up in his pain to notice anything around himself. It was ironic, really; a gaping wound that would have killed him without magical intervention passed with little notice, but a simple headache sent him reeling and rendered him utterly useless.

He only noticed that Fenris had closed the curtains and put the grate in front of the fire when a cool hand touched his wrist lightly, guiding it away from his face and pressing the bowl of a wineglass into his palm. The darkened room was a relief to his senses, the first sip of sparkling white wine from the glass even more so.

Fenris sank to his knees and deftly unbuckled Hawke's boots, stripping them off and setting them aside before starting in on the straps on Hawke's brigandine. Hawke fumbled to help him, but his fingers tangled with Fenris's and Fenris flinched away from the contact. That, at least, was just the same as before.

“Fine,” Hawke grumbled. “You do it.” He looked up just in time to catch the tracings of a small, wry smile at the edges of Fenris's mouth before it melted away again.

Hawke pulled back the coverlet himself, and slid between cool sheets with a sigh of relief, until he realized that Fenris was laying himself out on the floor.

“You can't sleep on the floor,” Hawke snapped, and bile rose him his throat that Fenris would think he'd want that.

“My apologies,” Fenris said, hauling himself up and stumbling over to stand before the door in a position of readiness.

It took Hawke an embarrassingly long time to realize what Fenris had thought he'd meant.

“No!” Hawke said roughly. “You'll sleep in the bed. It's larger than anything I've seen in Kirkwall; it will do just fine for two people.”

“I'll-- I'll sleep in the bed?” Fenris repeated, and the fear in his voice and his posture was palpable.

“Yes. Sleep. You're almost as tired as I am, I can tell. So come to bed so I can sleep.”

Fenris obeyed, sliding beneath the covers on the opposite side, body rigid, back to Hawke. Hawke sighed again and rolled to his side, facing away from Fenris though that felt wrong. Three years on, and it felt wrong to face away from Fenris while sharing a bed with him.

Hawke slept poorly that night, though if anyone were to ask, he'd blame the diplomatic headache, not the fact of Fenris-who-was-not-Fenris laying in his bed and fearing-- or perhaps simply anticipating-- the worst.


	2. Chapter 2

Fenris had no choice but to follow his master-- Hawke, he reminded himself sternly, into the parlor. Just because Hawke had been lenient last night didn’t mean he could expect the same this morning. Especially considering that Hawke was clearly no longer suffering from his headache.

“Did Anders come in last night?” Hawke asked Prince Vael who had started his breakfast already.

Vael swallowed hastily. “I’m hardly the person to ask,” he said curtly.

Hawke sighed. “I was just wondering,” he said.

Vael ignored that, instead passing several calling cards across the table. “You gained several allies, it seems.”

“Makes me wish I’d slept even later,” Hawke muttered, scanning the cards. “Who’s Lady Camille and why is she requesting a private luncheon with me this afternoon?”

“Orlais still covets the Free Marches, Hawke. Enough, it would seem, to entertain marriage with the strongest ruler of the most prosperous nation in the region. And for shame-- you of all people should know that ‘private’ actually means ‘in the company of our impotent, weaponless bodyguards.’”

“Fantastic. I suppose you think I should accept?”

“You could entertain marriage with worse prospects. A pirate, for instance, would be far worse,” Sebastian said. Fenris shifted his weight slightly. His feet hurt no matter what-- the point, of course, of the beating-- but it was far worse when he was standing still for any length of time.

“You’re only saying that because you’ve got Miranda and three heirs already,” Hawke said, smirking.

“Fenris, are you not hungry?” Vael asked.

Fenris sucked in a harsh breath. He could feel Hawke’s attention on him, but kept his eyes firmly on the breakfast table and the little pile of cards in the center.

“Fenris,” Hawke said. “Sit.”

He could no more disobey than he could rid himself of the markings. Fenris sat.

“Eat,” Hawke ordered, serving food onto the plate that had been set before the seat Fenris had chosen.

“Hawke--" Vael started to ask, but Hawke interrupted him.

“Not now, Sebastian,” Hawke said. “I’m still hoping for wishing-makes-it-not-real, and if I think on it too much...”

“You’ll have to think about it sometime, Hawke,” Vael warned.

Fenris took a bite of the breakfast, and when Hawke didn’t change his mind, as Danarius so often had (Fenris privately thought Danarius often had his mind made up from the start, and only pretended to allow Fenris momentary luxuries. He didn’t think it often, though, because it wasn’t right to think so ill of one’s master.) he chewed it slowly and swallowed.

The door flew open, and Fenris leapt to interpose himself between Hawke and the newcomer.

“Maker save the poor souls in this town,” the newcomer said. “Because no one else seems willing to try. Hawke, I know I said I’d be back before the embassy ended for the day, but the word got out, and I had lines out into the streets. Little elf girls with sexual diseases and working human men with festering wounds from _accidents_ that no one could be bothered to heal.”

“Anders,” Hawke began, only to be interrupted.

“Maker’s Breath; Fenris?” Anders exclaimed, taking the three steps to close the distance between them. He grabbed Fenris’s chin and tilted his head around to the left. “That’s new,” he muttered, fingers tracing the only mark on his body that wasn’t laced with lyrium.

“It looks like a brand,” Hawke said. “Does the shape mean anything to you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? It’s familiar but-- I’d have to look it up. Fenris, what does it mean?”

Fenris wrenched his head free to look to Hawke for permission to speak to Anders.

“Anders,” Hawke said, and Fenris winced a little, because from the strain in his voice, his headache had returned.

“I said I was sorry!” Anders snapped. “Besides, keeping track of my every movement doesn’t mean you’d be able to stop me if I decided to destroy half the city anyway.”

“That’s not what I was going to say. Fenris needs healing. I know you’re tired, but--“

“But you want me to heal him. I wish you wouldn’t ask.”

“And yet, here I am, asking.”

Fenris wasn’t particularly enamored of the idea of allowing a mage who didn’t want to, to use magic on him, but Hawke seemed insistent.

“Hawke--“

“Just look at him, first. Look at him and then come back out here and tell me you won’t heal him.”

Anders sighed. “Fine.”

“Fenris, go with Anders; show him every one of your injuries, no matter how minor _you_ think it is, and listen to what he tells you to do, okay?”

Fenris absolutely did not want to go into a room alone with Anders, but he couldn’t not, so he followed behind as they went back into the bedroom, but he lingered near the door when it was shut.

“Do you _have_ to make this difficult?” Anders asked, an eyebrow arched imperiously.

Fenris very carefully looked away from him.

“Come _here,_ ” Anders snapped. “And show me whatever it is he wants me to see. Neither of us wants to be--“

Fenris turned away from him and shrugged out of the poorly fitted shirt and Anders cut himself off with a hiss of breath.

“Andraste’s left tit, Fenris,” he said. “What happened?”

Fenris didn’t respond, barely even breathed. Every instinct screamed at him to _turn around, face the mage, never turn your back on a threat,_ but Hawke had said--

Anders touched his back, and the lyrium markings sang out to meet his magical energy, and it hurt how powerful Anders was. Fenris had no doubt that should Anders desire it, he could drain Fenris dry, and Danarius had very carefully designed him so that he couldn’t be drained completely.

He very carefully did not react, not even when Anders started casting and it was surprisingly soothing, both cool and warm, making him want to cry out and relax all at once.

“Those were infected,” Anders said. “I will never understand this country.”

Fenris ignored him and moved over to the low stool by the fireplace so he could remove the bandages from his feet.

Anders knelt before him and took his foot away, light fingers untying the bindings, even lighter fingers running down his soles, sparks of cool/warm healing magic trailing in their wake.

When Anders was done, he set Fenris’s foot gently down.

“Are you-- I suppose I can see you’re not alright. But-- will you be?”

Fenris met Anders’s gaze then, for the first time. He didn’t reply, as Hawke hadn’t given him permission, and besides, what would he say? But he met his gaze and let that answer Anders’s question.

***

Fenris had somehow missed the fact that Hawke had no real guard beyond one of Vael’s detailed to keeping an eye on him.

That guard had winked at Fenris and said “Good luck,” with a smile Fenris couldn’t begin to decipher.

Now, though, Hawke had him, and even without a sword, he dared any of these delegates to make an attempt on him.

He made sure to keep his stare stern and indiscriminate, and he stood just behind Hawke the whole time. More people fawned for Hawke’s favor even than had Danarius, which pleased Fenris. He crushed down that emotion as soon as he felt it, because it was confusing.

Danarius had said he’d been confused before, and that was why he couldn’t be allowed to remember the rest of his life; so he tried to avoid confusion as much as possible now.

His hand went to the side of his neck of its own volition, pressing against the mark there.

Hawk turned to look at him. “Fenris?” he asked, ignoring the Antivan delegate who had just approached. _”Viscount, but excuse me for asking how many men you are going to commit? Only I do not want to seem weak, but...”_

“Is everything alright?” Hawke asked. The Antivan left quietly, but Fenris watched him closely until he’d engaged the Orlesian delegate in conversation regardless. Antivans could not be trusted.

Fenris looked back at Hawke, and remembered he’d been asked a question. Hawke didn’t look upset at being ignored though, just concerned.

“I’m fine,” Fenris said evenly. And he was. Momentary confusion aside, he was better than he’d been days, able to stand and move and wear clothing without pain. Once his body had relaxed enough to sleep last night, he’d slept deeply and well.

Hawke tilted his head. “Okay,” he said softly. “But you know you can tell me if you’re not, right?”

Fenris inclined his head politely. Hawke moved as if to touch him, but stopped just short, snatching his hand away at the last second

Something inside him ached at the abortive gesture, but he kept his face calm and blank, and waited for Hawke to go back to his politicking.

Over Hawke’s shoulder, Danarius caught his eye, and he made a quick, decisive signal with his hand, and Fenris jerked his head, a ‘no’ and rebellion and hatred all at once. Hawke turned his head as if to follow Fenris’s gaze, and Danarius signaled again.

“Oh, for--“ Hawke snapped when he had seen who had Fenris’s attention, and Fenris looked back at him, guilty.

“Not you, Fenris,” Hawke said. “Just-- I’d say ignore him, but I’m going to settle this once and for all.”

Fenris had little choice but to follow Hawke over to his former master. He dragged his feet and didn’t even glare at the Orlesian in hopes that she might detain his master, but to no avail. After just a few steps, they were there, and Danarius had the look on his face that usually preceded agony for Fenris and happiness for himself.

Even knowing that bodyguards must always be alert, even knowing that what little temper Hawke seemed possessed of seemed to be fraying; which admittedly showed through sharp words and cruel conversational barbs, never a whipping or lash of magical force, (but the day was still young); Fenris let his head tilt down, and focused his attention intently on the morbid designs of lilies and deathroot across the carpet, trying to find some repetition or pattern there rather than acknowledge Danarius’s anger.

“Whatever petty revenge you’re trying to initiate, don’t,” Hawke said bluntly.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re insinuating, Viscount,” Danarius said smoothly.

“I’m sure,” Hawke said. “But face it-- I’ve won, and I never even had to use blood magic to secure my victory. And I hope that stings. I hope it keeps you up at night for the rest of your life wondering how you managed to lose to me-- or how did you put it? A ‘petty would-be-master of a slave who couldn’t escape his chains even when he’d managed to run so far,’ if I remember correctly.”

“He hasn’t even managed that much, this time,” Danarius said with the tone he normally used to point out a flaw in an apprentice’s work right before he poured magic into just the right places to cause a spell to go horrifically wrong.

That alone was what drew Fenris’s attention up again, and that alone was the reason he caught the swift signal that meant ‘kneel’ out of the corner of his eye.

Fenris didn’t think, reacted only to Danarius’s mood and the familiarity of obedience.

He hit his knees.

Hawke hit Danarius with his closed fist. Fenris had a wild thought of how badly he’d failed-- he existed to ensure his master never had to resort to physical violence-- and how he was glad Hawke hadn’t ordered him to hit Danarius, because he wasn’t sure he would have been able to, no matter what quarrel Hawke held with him.

Hawke visibly reigned himself in, his fists clenched tight at his side. “You had no right--“ he snarled, but cut himself off abruptly, crouching next to Fenris. He squeezed Fenris’s shoulder, and Fenris didn’t flinch under the white-knuckled grip, but it was a near thing. He’d behaved so poorly, Hawke would be well within his rights to order him dead, and Fenris wouldn’t protest, would gladly draw the blade himself and present it to his master, would--

“Go back to my room,” Hawke said, his voice still rough. “Wait for me there.”

Fenris nodded, and as soon as the grip on his shoulder was loosened, he fled.

He didn’t make note of the hallways he ran through, or the startled people and slaves he left in his wake. It was too late now, he knew, but he had to obey, to be good. He didn’t know how else he might repair the situation. He thought bitterly of the healing this morning and hated himself, just a little more, for having wasted it all so soon.

A reprieve of two days had seemed too good to be true-- too good to even think on. And now...

He threw open the door with far too much force and stumbled to a halt in the middle of the parlor, looking around himself despite the need to obey coursing through his consciousness.

The door to the mage’s room was exactly the same as the other two, but Fenris knew Anders was actually within. He edged towards it, casting a guilty glance to Hawke’s room. Anders had been... _kind_ , earlier.

Hawke had given him the choice, after all; that Fenris remembered clearly. He remembered the way he’d tended those wounds, practicality and pity and disgust all at once, and he thought maybe Anders might-- _intervene_ , perhaps. He took another step toward the door, and his skin itched, and he knew what the order had been, and every inch of him was starting to ache with the disobedience, until he let his hand, half-raised to knock at the mage’s door, fall back to his side, and he went to Hawke’s room instead; instantly, the ache subsided.

He stripped out of his shirt, and after a second’s hesitation, his trousers, folding both neatly and laying them on the chest next to the bed. Then he knelt in the center of the carpet and focused on his breathing.

When Hawke entered the room, almost an hour later, he was in the same position feeling much calmer. He didn’t move when Hawke came in.

The door latched closed with a soft snick, and Hawke slumped against it, looking utterly defeated.

That almost caused Fenris to lose his composure. He had a gut-response to Hawke looking defeated that confused him; made him want to reassure him and stand between him and all comers. It was subtly different from his desire to be a good bodyguard; he _wanted_ to defend Hawke, didn’t consider it mere duty.

“Fenris,” Hawke said, and nothing else. Fenris watched him carefully, waiting.

After another beat of silence, Hawke scrubbed his hand over his face, sighed. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do, here,” Hawke said. “I’m lost, otherwise. I want-- I want to do the right thing, but it’s feeling more and more like there isn’t a right thing to do.”

“Danarius is an old enemy, is he not?” Fenris asked carefully, unsure if he should voice the suspicions that were clouding his mind with confusion or not.

Generally, his instinct was _not_ , but something about Hawke made him want to abandon his instincts.

Hawke let out a bark of startled laughter. “Or something of that nature, yes.”

“And you took me from him to hurt him, because he hurt you before?”

“More or less.”

“You should kill me.” Fenris stated flatly. “Or give me a blade and I will gladly do it myself.”

“What?” Hawke demanded, drawing away from the door, startled. “No!”

“He’ll use me to kill you,” Fenris said. “I’m susceptible to his magic, if no one else’s. Were you a magister yourself, you could... alter that. But you aren’t. And your mage friend is... unskilled in such magic, is he not?” It was like walking a narrow beam when the ground below was studded with traps and shattered glass.

“You mean blood magic? Hah. No, definitely not.”

“Then you must kill me,” Fenris said. “I’m supposed to be your bodyguard, to keep you safe. And he’d use me to-- I can’t. Please,” he added in a whisper. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

“Could I make you hurt him?”

Fenris nodded. “Of course,” he said. “You’re my master.”

“Well, it seems simple. I order you not to hurt me.”

“I--“ Fenris said, then shook his head. “I wouldn’t though!” He _couldn’t_.

“Then I don’t understand what the problem is, Fenris. You aren’t explaining this very well.”

“I failed you,” Fenris said. “It’s more dangerous to have me as your slave than not, and that’s not how it’s supposed to work.”

Hawke moved to kneel next to Fenris, and while he still had several inches of height on Fenris, it felt wrong. Fenris moved to prostrate himself, but Hawke took his hand, placing it over his heart.

“What if I ordered you to kill me, Fenris, what then?” Hawke asked quietly.

Fenris tried to pull his wrist free, but Hawke dug his fingers into Fenris’s skin, pressing against tendons painfully enough to make him subside.

“No!” he shouted, fingers flexing slightly against the leather of Hawke’s brigantine.

“See?” Hawke asked, and Fenris was unsure if he meant the suggestion that Fenris be killed, or that Fenris wouldn’t be able to kill Hawke. Either way, he nodded reluctantly.

Hawke let Fenris’s hand go, and reluctantly he returned it to his side.

“I have to get ready to meet Lady Camille for lunch. You should get dressed; unless you’d prefer to stay here?”

“But,” Fenris said. “You haven’t punished me.”

“Do you really want me too?” Hawke asked. “And how should I punish you, Fenris? You want me to _beat_ you?”

He bent closer, his hair brushing against Fenris’s cheek when he whispered, “How would that help? What would that accomplish?”

Fenris didn’t dare move. His breath stayed caught in his chest, and he closed his eyes. He didn’t _know_ , he wanted to snap. He was the slave, and Hawke the master. The roles should be obvious, but Hawke kept twisting them, erasing lines and refusing to draw new ones. He didn’t like this confusion.

Hawke drew away. “The truth of it is that you don’t want to be punished, Fenris. You want to be forgiven. The problem with that is that I don’t think there is anything to forgive. Therefore, we seem to be at an impasse, so I’m going to forget this ever happened.”

He stood, going to the trunk and tossing Fenris his clothing before opening it. “So, Lady Camille’s suite for lunch? I’ve already told a servant to send food for Anders, so you’re welcome to stay here if you’d rather.”

For some reason, the idea of Hawke dining alone with the Orlesian made Fenris’s gut churn. He started to pull his clothing back on.

Hawke was modeling a bright red scarf in the mirror. “What do you think, fancy enough to win me a bride?” he asked.

Fenris accidentally put his hand through the fabric of the sleeve, rending a large hole in the fabric. He stared at it in horror.

Hawke laughed, before throwing him another shirt from the trunk. “Here,” he said. “This should do for now. It’s in my colors and everything, which might even be an improvement.”

The shirt was too large, but Hawke gave him a belt for the waist and wrapped the red scarf around his neck so the lyrium along Fenris’s collarbones wasn’t glaring too brightly. He positioned it carefully, so the Hawke family crest was over the top of his sternum.

“There. I’ll certainly buy it as good enough to win _you_ a bride, Fenris,” Hawke said, and Fenris thought he sounded wistful.

“It’s your scarf,” he said. “You should wear it if you want to.”

“No,” Hawke said, a wry grin twisting his mouth. “We’ve delayed enough.”


End file.
